The Ninja Daughter

by Tori Eldridge

  She had a point. Less than fourteen percent of rideshare drivers in Los Angeles were women. I patronized this app because they attracted a higher percentage. They also provided profile photos and allowed passengers to customize ride requests. Since I promoted safe and empowering opportunities for women, and since I was rarely without the Merida, I normally requested female drivers with bike racks. Although if I was in a hurry, I’d take a space alien on a hovercraft if it could reach me the fastest.

  “What’s so funny?” Kansas asked as we settled into the car.

  “Nothing. Just thinking about some of the crazy people I’ve met through rideshares—presently company not included, of course.”

  “I should hope not.” Every time she laughed, her mouth opened wide and her eyes disappeared, like a laughing emoji. While Kansas might not be crazy, she was easily becoming the most fascinating driver I had met.

  “So what’s the story behind your name?”

  “My college roommate gave it to me because I’m from Wichita. And since my real name’s Petunia—yeah, go ahead and snicker—I decided to keep it. I mean, who wants to go through life with a name like that? Not that there’s anything wrong with being named after a flower,” she added before I could take offense. “But Petunia? Come on.”

  I waved it away. “Hey, I don’t blame you. Names are important. They have to resonate.”

  “Right? Although, you don’t really strike me as a Lily.”

  I held out my dirt-caked arms and scraped hands. “What? I don’t look like a delicate flower?”

  “Not even close.”

  I chuckled. “All the women on my mom’s side of the family are named after flowers, but my dad calls me Dumpling.”

  She burst out laughing. I joined her. Dumplings were plump and soft. I was lean and hard. Taken out of context, the name didn’t seem any more appropriate than Lily. However, what the doughy packages and I had in common were the secrets we hid.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Not only did I enjoy Kansas’ company, her cellphone charger worked perfectly with Julie Stanton’s phone.

  As I wandered through Julie’s apps, I found icons for all the major social media sites, including two for dating. The last was particularly illuminating. From her profile, I learned that Julie had just landed an assistant manager position at a trendy discount clothing store, had recently cut her long blond hair into a bouncing bob, was thrilled to announce that she was halfway to her goal of losing thirty pounds by the end of the year. Also, she enjoyed long walks on the beach, ocean sunsets, and mango margaritas. No joke. The only thing missing was a cutesy photo of her cuddling a puppy.

  Why would a young, attractive, intelligent woman like Julie Stanton feel she had to peddle herself online for a date? It boggled my mind. To make matters worse, she only got one response: a guy who went by the name T-Rex and used the Jurassic dinosaur as a profile photo.

  T-Rex: Are we still on for Saturday?

  Julie: Absolutely! (Smiley face.)

  T-Rex: Excellent. Meet me at the Yerba Buena trailhead. 9 a.m.

  Julie: OKAY! (Laughing face. Smiling sun. Thumbs up.) I can’t wait to meet you! (Blushing smiley face.)

  T-Rex: See you tomorrow.

  I looked over at Kansas. “Ever used one of those online dating sites?”

  She gave me an incredulous look. “Uh, no. Why? Are you thinking of giving it a try?”

  “Nope. Just reading a text from a friend who’s about to go on a blind date.”

  “With a guy she met online? Kind of risky, don’t you think?”

  “You have no idea.”

  Kansas grunted. “Well, I hope she’s gonna meet the guy somewhere with lots of people.”

  I stared at Julie’s blushing smiling face emoji and sighed. “If only.”

  As Kansas negotiated traffic, I opened Julie’s photo gallery in the hopes of finding a picture of T-Rex, who I assumed to be J Tran. While he wouldn’t have allowed her to photograph him, she might have snapped a shot of him on the sly.

  If I could prove that Tran had been with Julie on the Mishe Mokwa Trail the day she had died, I’d be on my way to making the connection between Julie Stanton’s murder and the TAC vote for Metro’s Copper Line. On the other hand, if I found a photo of Julie happily hiking with some guy wearing a T-Rex T-shirt, I could let go of this theory and explore another direction. Either way, I hoped Julie’s gallery would lead me closer to the truth.

  Appearing from most recent to oldest, the first image I saw was of twigs and leaves. The second was a useless blur of rocks. The third showed a botched attempt at a selfie. The fourth was taken in motion—probably while Julie was switching her camera from the front to rear lens. And the final picture in the collection—which actually was the first one taken—showed a perfectly framed shot of the view.

  Looking at the series again in chronologic order, I saw a mini-story of a girl taking a shot of the view, switching the viewpoint of her camera lens to take a selfie, getting it set up, and dropping her camera over the edge. If this had been the case, Julie could have fallen while trying to catch her phone.

  But if T-Rex was with her, why take a selfie at all?

  Unless Julie had invited him to join her for a selfie and gotten pushed off the cliff. The phone could have slipped from her hand, hit the ledge, snapped the blurry photo of the rocks, then landed with another photo-snapping thump in the sage.

  Although both scenarios seemed plausible, the question remained: had Julie Stanton been alone on that mountain or had someone else been with her?

  When I scrolled back to the blurry shot of the trail, something dark and out of place caught my eye. I zoomed in. The corner of the frame had captured the outer edge of a black boot. Not a hiking boot. A soft-soled boot. The kind purchased from expensive European stores aimed at athletes with deep pockets and discerning tastes. The kind used for treading quietly through a Koreatown parking lot.

  I smiled and turned off the phone: I had found my connection.

  Chapter Forty

  Come on, Mia, pick up.

  My imagination flitted from one tragedy to the next with every unanswered ring. Mia sprawled on the floor, mouth foaming from an overdose. Mia scraped off the sidewalk, her lifeless body zipped into a bag. Mia—

  “What’s wrong?” Kansas asked. “You look kinda tense.”

  “Nothing,” I said, and called again.

  Mia answered on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

  “Why didn’t you answer?”

  “I was taking a shower. Is that okay with you?”

  I sighed with relief. Snark and hygiene—Mia had improved.

  “Of course.”

  “I’m dripping on the floor. What do you want?”

  “To give you an update. I’ve connected Tran to a possible conspiracy. I think he might have attacked you to send a message to someone involved.”

  “Who?”

  “I’d rather not say at the moment, but if I’m right, Tran won’t be coming back for you.”

  I didn’t mention Freddy. Knowing Mia, she’d barge into his office, make a scene, and put them both in danger. Besides, Freddy had a family; the less she thought of him the better.

  “What if you’re wrong?” she asked.

  “Then I’ll deal with him. In the meantime, stay vigilant. I’ll call you when I know more.”

  “Sure, take your time. It’s not like I have anything else to do.”

  I ended the call before Mia’s sarcasm made me regret she was safe.

  “Feel better?” Kansas asked.

  “Getting there.”

  I chose the next contact in my recent call list and closed my eyes as I pressed the green button.

  “Hey,” Daniel answered. “I was hoping to hear from you. Are we on for tomorrow night?”

  “Still not sure.”

  “About the night or the date?”

  Truthful answer? Both. But since a kunoichi faces
her fears I said, “The night. I’ve got some things going on, and I’m not sure they’ll be done by then.”

  “Would they be done by Saturday night?”

  I laughed. “They might.”

  “All right then. I’ll pencil you in for Saturday.”

  I smiled. “I’ll do the same.” We hung up with a promise to touch base the next day.

  Kansas smirked. “Now I know you’re feeling better.”

  “Mind your own business.”

  “My car. My business.”

  “Good to be queen.”

  “Damn right.”

  Queen Kansas turned up the tunes.

  It took her two hours to drive forty-five miles. If we had left Malibu an hour later, it would have taken three. Thursdays weren’t as miserable as Fridays, when everyone cut their workday short, but rush hour in LA was never fun. Downtown was the worst.

  We had been heading to the last place Tran’s GPS tracker had stopped: three blocks from a familiar address.

  “Can you drop me at city hall?”

  Kansas smiled. “Do we have another cheating politician?”

  “Probably, but I don’t think that’s what I’m after.”

  She nodded toward the tracker app on my phone. “You a PI?”

  I shrugged. “Something like that.” I liked this woman. She paid attention, had common sense, and a good sense of humor. “Mind if I request you the next time I call for a ride?”

  “Go for it. Just give me some notice so I can get in your area. If I’m free, I’ll accept. If not…” She shrugged. “You know how it is.”

  “I do, and I will.”

  “Cool. And call if you ever want a hiking or biking buddy. I’m always up for a new adventure.”

  We exchanged cellphone numbers, promised to keep in touch, and headed in our separate directions.

  The garage under the city hall building was reserved for elected officials, government employees, and savvy bicyclists. Tran’s locator placed his car in the visitor’s lot several long blocks away. Even if he knew where he was going, thirty minutes would not have been enough time to travel from the parking lot to city hall and through the mausoleum-inspired building to find whomever he needed to see. So if my assumptions were correct, Tran was still here. But he might not be for long.

  I sped to the rear of the first parking level, chained my bike behind a pillar, then bolted for the elevator and stairs that connected the three parking levels below me to the twenty-eight floors of government offices above. The fourth floor of City Hall housed all of the district offices, including those for Councilman Henrique Vasquez. If Tran had come to pressure a vote, I figured that’s where he’d go.

  I bypassed the elevator and took the stairs. I’d have some explaining to do if I ran into Tran, but what the heck? Compared to the risks I had already taken this day, a chance meeting in a stairwell barely registered as a blip on my danger radar. Besides, I would likely hear his approach and have ample time to race down the stairs or bolt out the nearest door.

  As it turned out, the acoustics worked better than I had expected.

  The moment I stepped into the cement stairwell, I heard a man’s angry voice echoing up from one of the parking levels below. It didn’t sound like Tran, but that didn’t mean the man’s anger wasn’t directed at him. Besides, the angry man sounded Hispanic, arrogant, and professional. Councilman Henrique Vasquez?

  “I don’t know what you expected, but I’m not someone you can dick around. I have the ear of the highest levels of government. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” He literally wheezed with anger. “When I call, they pick up the fucking phone, take what I fucking give, and do whatever the fuck I want.” With every sentence, he sounded less like a political power broker and more like an East LA thug.

  I crept down the next landing and crouched low before peeking around the corner. If anyone glanced up the stairs, I didn’t want my face at the expected height.

  The man doing the yelling was standing near the stairway exit. The recipient of his tirade was hidden around the bend. Could it be Tran? Possibly. But the angry, wheezing politician was, without a doubt, Vasquez.

  I backed out of sight and took out my cellphone. If something violent was about to occur or something incriminating about to be said, I wanted it captured on video. I pressed record and snuck the phone around the corner while Vasquez continued his diatribe.

  “You don’t get to tell me what to do. I tell you what to do. Are you listening to me? Because I know a dozen guys like you, and every one of them would chew you up and spit you out.”

  The recipient didn’t respond, but if it was Tran, the councilman could be wheezing his last breath. When the silence continued, I started to worry. What if Tran had slit the councilman’s throat? What if Vasquez was bleeding out on the stairs? I leaned forward to see, but stopped when I heard the garage door clank against a wall and Vasquez deliver his parting words. “Don’t ever come here again. You got that? I’m done with this bullshit. And I’m done with you.”

  I listened as the councilman’s dress shoes clacked on the cement. Then the stairwell door slammed shut. Had Tran followed? If so, I hadn’t heard his steps. But with those soft-soled boots, Tran could be walking up the stairs toward me, and I wouldn’t hear him.

  Time to go.

  I pocketed the phone and hurried up the stairs. This time, my floating feet sounded dreadfully loud. If Tran was listening for sounds of a witness, he’d certainly hear me.

  I fell back into the Futae Ibuki breathing pattern. In-out-out. In-out. In-in-out. The pattern focused my mind and kept my breaths even and quiet, allowing me to move more efficiently. When I arrived at the next landing, where the stairs made their turn, I paused to peek around the wall.

  Tran.

  I yanked back before he could see me and considered my options. If I sprinted up the stairs, he would hear it and pick up the pace. If I continued to move quietly, he would maintain his present speed. Either way, he would catch up with me before I reached the next landing. Either way, I’d have to fight on precarious footing against someone who had more reach, more muscle, and possibly more skill. Either way, my chances of survival were slim.

  And this was assuming Tran didn’t just pull me down the stairs and let the cement do the work.

  But if going up was not a good plan, neither was going down. Whether I charged, jumped, or attacked with more deliberation, my lighter weight would work against me. The best I could hope for was both of us falling down the stairs together—and I was pretty sure his body would fare better than mine.

  All of this flashed through my mind in seconds. Unless I wanted to have a conversation with Tran on the landing of a deserted stairwell—and I most certainly did not—I needed to act.

  I listened carefully to the soft pad of his boots then sank into an Ichimonji stance with my weight loaded on the back leg. Then, when he was just steps away, I launched a fully committed Zenpo Keri stomp kick to the spot where his footfalls told me he would appear. My force against his upward momentum stopped us both, and for a moment, I couldn’t tell who had won. Both of us struggled for balance—me on one foot and Tran with his arms out like a tightrope walker. Then our eyes met, and he gasped in surprise. The inhalation rocked him beyond the tipping point, and he tumbled down the stairs.

  I grabbed the edge of the wall to keep from falling after him, so I didn’t see if his spine cracked on the edges of the steps or if his arms broke beneath his weight. But I did hear the awful thump when he landed at the bottom.

  Should I check on him? Call an ambulance? Leave before someone saw me? Every option pulled me in a different direction, and in so doing, rooted me into place. Then I heard him moan and my decision was made: Tran could take care of himself.

  I ran up the stairs and shoved open the metal door, not caring when it crashed against the wall. The time for stealth had passed. As far as I knew, Tran had regained his strength and was following c
lose behind. And when the door crashed open a second time, I feared the worst.

  I sprinted across the garage, weaving between cars—parked and moving—until I reached the pillar that hid my bike. While I hadn’t seen a gun, it didn’t mean Tran didn’t have one holstered under his jacket. I had to get out of this garage before he turned it into a shooting gallery.

  I grabbed my bicycle chain and helmet, not bothering to fasten either, and ran the Merida into the flow of traffic, hopped on while it was in motion, and sped for the exit ramp. I didn’t stop until city hall was out of sight and I had found a safe haven for me to stop and make sense of what I had witnessed.

  I leaned the bike against a wall and waited for my heart to stop racing.

  Tran had done something to make Henrique Vasquez very angry, but apparently not scared. So either the councilman was a foolishly arrogant victim or a dissatisfied employer.

  I played the video and listened carefully to his choice of words: “You don’t get to tell me what to do. I tell you what to do. Are you listening to me? Because I know a dozen guys like you, and every one of them would chew you up and spit you out.”

  Did Vasquez intend to hire one of those “dozen guys” to do what Tran had failed to do? Or was there more to this picture than I could see? Because at this point, the wheezing councilman sounded an awful lot like Cigarette Smoking Man.

  I shook my head. This wasn’t a television show. It might not even be a conspiracy. All I knew for certain was that a new Metro line passing through the councilman’s district would make a powerful talking point in his bid for Mayor of Los Angeles.

  Henrique Vasquez had a motive for hiring Tran. If he could get the most influential TAC members to vote his way, he’d get a shiny new Copper Line he could ride all the way to the governorship.

  But did he have the means?

  LA city council members received the highest annual salary of any city council in the nation. However, $178,000 didn’t count for much in Los Angeles, not after taxes, and not when supporting a family. Even with all the perks of the office, Vasquez would need to make a whole lot more than that in order to maintain his big shot image and still have enough left to hire an assassin.